


Secret on our Lips

by Littlebrainattic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, In which John Watson is a bully (retired) and Sherlock Holmes is a prat., M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlebrainattic/pseuds/Littlebrainattic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After two years away, Sherlock Holmes returns to state high school as a changed man and with a brilliant plan to enact revenge on the classmates who bullied him. Unfortunately, everything else seems to have changed as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret on our Lips

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the result of mainlining too many modern Merlin AUs and teenlock. I have no idea where it is going (if it is going anywhere), except that there will be future boy-kissing. Also there is some past character death. And bullying + general mean-spirited-ness. The title is taken from an awesome Astronautalis song. 
> 
> WARNING: I have no idea how the British school system works, beyond the fact that private schools are called public schools. So in my universe there are four years in high school: freshman, sophomore, junior and senior. Deal with it B)

Sherlock Holmes paused before the sterile brick building, taking in the barred windows and peeling paint, yellow by choice or age (he would need to observe more closely before concluding either). Students lingered on the steps, greeting friend they had likely seen daily over the summer break with melodramatic shrieks and gestures, as though it had been _ages_ , and complaining about the inevitable return to classes even as they couldn’t quash the stupid grins from their faces. Nothing at Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Academy had changed since his hasty departure two years prior; the bike rack still bent forward at an improbable angle, the cracked basement window was still held together by duct tape. The outer wall of the gymnasium was still littered by vulgar graffiti, though since he’d left new and unfamiliar names with unfavorable sentiments had joined and overtaken the more familiar.  
  
Just then, a force struck him from behind, nearly knocking him off his feet. He was torn between the desire to turn around and slug his attacker and the embarrassing but deeply ingrained urge to curl into a ball and recite his multiplication tables, retreat into his vast mind until they got bored and left him alone. Instead, he settled for squaring his shoulders and drawing himself up to his not inconsiderable height before turning to face the other person.  
  
A short girl with mousy brown hair was gathering her belongings from the ground.  
  
“I’m so, so sorry,” she said, face flushed and appearing to be on the verge of tears. “I must have tripped.”  
  
Behind her, Sherlock could see a pair of female students giggling and pointing at her. _Yeah, tripped,_ he thought. He bent down and picked up a book on human anatomy. _A senior, like me._ The book had already been thoroughly read; Sherlock could see that many of the pages were dog-eared. He held it out to her, and when she finally looked up at him through the curtains of hair that hung over her eyes, she let out a gasp and promptly dropped her books back on the ground.  
  
“Sherlock?”  
  
***  
  
After he’d helped Molly Hooper collect her books a second time, Sherlock had settled down next to her on the low stone wall marking the school’s southern perimeter. He scowled around as other groups of students gathered nearby, killing time before the official start of class. Molly kept glancing alternatively at him and down to her hands, knotted in the hem of her blouse, deep flush never leaving her face. She looked remarkably different from the last time he’d seen her. She’d replaced her coke bottle glasses, for one, and lost quite a bit of weight. Of course, Sherlock had changed a lot as well appearance wise, growing nearly eight inches and losing the botticelli curls, despite his mother’s protestations. However nothing had changed about her demeanor, whereas Sherlock had two years away from this place to lick his wounds and gain back some (or as Mycroft put it, too-much) self-confidence.  
  
“I heard you transferred to Harrow,” Molly said quietly. She did everything quietly. She always had, which was why Sherlock tolerated her. That and her quite useful habit of doing anything he asked without question.  
  
“Hn,” he nodded, distracted by a gaggle of female students passing a few feet away. Several of the girls cast him sidelong glances. Although they didn’t seem to recognize him, he certainly recognized them (Kitty Riley, Sally Donovan, and Jennifer Wilson). Kitty flashed him a smile (which he returned) and a little wave (which he did not), before hurrying along. As soon as she turned around he let the smile drop.  
  
Molly didn’t seem to notice, her attention still fixed on a loose thread in the hem which she seemed intent on unraveling.  
  
“Not sure why you came back. If my family had the money to send me to public school,” she trailed off, looking up to the sky and sighing.  
  
“I was kicked out,” Sherlock said. “Something about damage to school property.”  
  
It was the truth, after all, or at least part of it. An experiment being conducted (in the gymnasium, in the middle of the night and without permission) had somehow gone horribly awry, leading to a minor (read: major) explosion. His father had replaced the gymnasium, but apparently this was one accidental chemical explosion too many (there had been four), and Sherlock was politely forced to leave.  
  
Of course, Sherlock had known the consequences of exposing sodium azide to the lead dust (and furthermore, why was Harrow still using lead paint? Is this not the 21st century?). He’d confirmed that during chemical explosion #2. In fact, everything was going rather smoothly and for a moment he seriously considered expressing such to Molly. Tell her the whole truth, let her in the plan. He fondly recalled their interactions during freshman year, and particularly her genuine admiration of his intelligence. But now was not the time, and he needed to be sure of her loyalties. After all, she had always been too nice for her own good. She may frown upon his vengeance, however cleverly crafted.  
  
“Another one of your experiments?” Molly asked with a laugh, shyness temporarily forgotten. “They really should keep those chemicals locked up.”  
  
“Oh, they did,” Sherlock said.  
  
She laughed harder and Sherlock felt the ghost of a real smile tugging at his lips. Though it was contrary to his deliberate avoidance of personal connections, he found that he like Molly. Or at least, he didn’t dislike her. She wasn’t as stupid as the rest of his classmates, and even though she babbled sometimes she would shut up when he told her too, and most importantly she wouldn’t take it personally when he did.  
  
“I missed you,” she said, breaking the silence. She had reverted to her previous state of nervousness. “ I umm…I wanted to write you letters. But I didn’t know where to send them to.”  
  
Sherlock considered this and found that he hadn’t missed Molly at all. Of course, this would be an incorrect answer, despite being the truth. Although they had been very-nearly-friends during his freshman year, he couldn’t expect her to respond to his bluntness any differently than a normal person. He considered lying and saying that he had missed her as well. After all, it would be good practice and may diffuse her potential suspicions further down the line. _What would Mycroft do?_ Sherlock asked himself, swallowing the shame that his slimy brother had become an inspiration.  
  
He’d just decided to embrace the lie when Molly cut him off.  
  
“It’s fine,” she said, smiling. “I don’t expect you to have missed me.”  
  
“It’s just,” Sherlock was momentarily lost for words. “I was very busy.”  
  
“I get it,” she said. And strangely enough, he believed her. They fell into silence, but Sherlock couldn’t tell whether it was comfortable or not.  
  
“How have things been here?” Sherlock asked after a minute. Around them, students began to migrate towards the school’s entrance. Molly rose to her feet and Sherlock followed.  
  
“Same as always,” Molly said.  
  
“That bad?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. Just then, a nearby car full of male students revved its engine. Molly jumped, sending her books flying for a third time.  
  
“Well, now they drive.”  
  
***  
  
Shortly after taking his seat in homeroom, they began to gather around his desk, buzzing and fluttering about like a swarm of insects drawn to a flame. _Girls._ He hadn’t missed them at Harrow. In fact, he hadn’t missed them during his freshman year, when most female students would sooner spit on him than speak to him.  
  
“Are you new here?” “Are you from London?” “So posh!” They all spoke over each other, introducing themselves, words punctuated with deliberate touches and unwarranted giggling. Sherlock gave them as warm a smile as he could manage given the circumstances. Luckily none of them seemed to be paying very close attention.  
  
“Actually, I was a student here for most of my freshman year.”  
  
“No way!” Kitty squealed. “I would have remembered you.”  
  
Sherlock just shrugged. Luckily the teacher entered then, delaying his inevitable reveal. He figured the more dramatic the better. As everyone began taking their seats, Sherlock scanned the room, looking for one face in particular. When his brief glances turned up nothing, he began to scrutinize the students. He recognized most of them, remembered their names and encounters (or in many cases lack-thereof) from his freshman year. A few were unfamiliar. And none were _him._ br />  
Two years was a long time, but Sherlock was confident that whether he’d gained 20 stones or shaved his head bald, Sherlock would recognize _him._ The teacher had begun roll call, and when she got to Sherlock Holmes he raised his hand instinctively. A few of the girls gasped and Kitty turned bright red, but Sherlock couldn’t even enjoy it.  
  
Sherlock was certain he was in this homeroom, and made certain that they were in the same homeroom through means that could likely get him kicked out of this school as well. Where _was_ he?  
  
“John Watson.”  
  
Sherlock jumped at the name, looking around again. No one spoke up, but a strange look settled on the faces of several of the students. The teacher made a mark on the paper and moved onto Sebastian Wilkes. After finishing roll, the teacher began going over the ins and outs of hallway passes. Sherlock immediately tuned her out, and apparently so did most of the class because conversations began to spring up all over. He heard the name “Watson” being discussed in hushed voices across the room but even as he tried to focus on their words, Kitty and Sally were ganging up on him from both sides.  
  
“No way! You’re _Sherlock_?”  
  
“You look so _different!_ ”  
  
“You cut your hair!”  
  
He refrained from hissing at them to shut up, but a half-second later they did so anyway. In fact the whole class fell silent except Mrs. Hudson, who was still facing the board and explaining the proper way to record the date and time when leaving class.  
  
John Watson stood in the doorframe, assisted in this task by a pair of crutches. His skin (which Sherlock distinctly remembered as deeply tan, particularly at this time of year and likely from a summer spent playing rugby) was pale and beaded with sweat. John’s eyes darted across the room, and Sherlock thought maybe their eyes had met, and maybe he’d been recognized. But he quickly returned his attention to the teacher.  
  
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.  
  
“Oh, it’s fine. I completely understand. Please, take a seat, Mr. Watson.”  
  
She gestured to the empty front row. Sherlock knew those seats all too well; the front row for the nerds who cared too much about class, the friendless students who took the first empty seat, and of course the targets who wanted to make a quick escape after class. John slowly made his way to the seat. Though he wasn’t wearing a cast, his right foot dragged feebly on the ground. If he noticed 19 pairs of eyes trailing his every movement (and Sherlock didn’t see how he couldn’t), he didn’t show it. He just maneuvered himself awkwardly into the seat closest to the door and leaned his crutches against the wall, keeping his eyes resolutely on the teacher.  
  
Sherlock watched him for the rest of homeroom, but he never turned around.


End file.
